Firefighters - fighting fire from the sky Forest fires are one of the world’s deadliest natural forces. Stopping them takes skill, planning, advanced technology – and some of the bravest pilots around By Daniel Weiss Pilots who drop chemical retardant on wildfires know their job is dangerous. But veteran Bob Valette, who has flown retardant tankers over fires in California since 1976, was totally stunned by a midair collision that occurred in front of him in 2001.
"We were circling over a fire, and I was set to make a drop with the next pilot alongside me," he recalls. "Then I saw him and another aircraft converging – I hollered at him, but they struck, they hit." Both pilots were killed.
Just this past American summer, three crewmembers died in another crash in the neighboring state of Nevada, and nine firefighters perished in a helicopter crash in a California national forest. "If you’re around a tanker pilot for any length of time, you’re going to end up going to funerals," says Bill Buckley, one of Valette’s colleagues at Sonoma Air Attack Base, located 100 kilometers north of San Francisco. "That’s the reality of it."
Fire Hazard
California’s dry climate has always made it susceptible to wildfires. As recently as last November, fires destroyed hundreds of homes in the southern part of the state, while in June of the same year, a massive lightning storm set off hundreds of fires simultaneously in a single night. Within days, more than 2,000 fires were burning.
"It looked like we had been under attack," says Craig Hunt, another Sonoma tanker pilot.
In the two weeks that followed, tanker pilots dropped retardant from morning to night, giving ground crews a fighting chance. More than 4,800 square kilometers of California (equivalent to an area just under the size of Bali) had burned less than a month into the official fire season, making it one of the worst years for wildfires on record. And that was before the November fires.
As more homes are built at the edge of wildernesses, fires that might have once been allowed to burn must now be nipped in the bud. Thankfully, out-of-control fires are the exception rather than the rule; CAL FIRE, the state’s firefighting agency, keeps 95 percent of fires to smaller than four hectares (about the size of 150 tennis courts).
One of the key factors is an aggressive initial attack carried out by tanker pilots flying in conditions that would make other pilots blanch.
"You’re flying an airplane heavy, slow and low to the ground. You’re flying in mountainous terrain, in wicked winds," says Buckley. "You’ve got to be on your toes the whole time. There’s no room for error. Absolutely none."
The Sonoma Air Attack Base is one of 13 bases sited to ensure it takes no more than 20 minutes to get to a fire anywhere in California.
On arrival at the fires, Valette and the other pilots circle 300 meters above the ground in their single-pilot, twin-engined Grumman S-2T propeller planes awaiting instructions to drop retardant. These come from an Air Tactical Group supervisor who directs operations from the back seat of an OV-10A Bronco spotter plane circling the fire zone at an altitude of 760 meters. While waiting for clearance, the tanker pilots run through a checklist to ensure they have minimized the danger.
"Take a look around before you go down to see how to get in without bumping into something," says Valette. "[Check for] what’s there to hurt you down in the drop zone, and how to get out of that hole if you have an equipment malfunction."
To provide maximum power in case of such a failure, Valette turns on the plane’s auxiliary fuel pumps and sets the propellers to maximum revolutions per minute. He uses full flaps for a steep descent, which helps him see the target better, and keeps the plane’s airspeed at a leisurely 180 kilometers per hour. A mere 40 meters above the ground, he releases a 4,540-litre load of fluorescent, red retardant onto the target. The low altitude and slow speed ensure that the retardant – a mix of water, a chemical salt, a thickening agent and a colorant – doesn’t disperse as it descends and that it lands with no forward motion. Ideally, it should fall to the ground like gentle rain. Flying Circus
Weighing nearly 5 tones, a full load of retardant makes up at least a third of the S-2T tanker’s weight. As it drops, the pilot has to push the yoke forward to keep the plane from pitching up. At the same time, he has to contend with convection currents and turbulence created by the fires, reduced visibility due to smoke and flying embers up to 50 centimeters long. "It’s an art," says Valette, who also instructs new CAL FIRE pilots. "It’s a skill not everybody has."
Only half of the aspiring tanker pilots make it through the rigorous 18-month training programme, which starts by shadowing a veteran pilot and gradually eases into doing practice drops. It was different when Valette became a tanker pilot in 1976. "They just took a pilot on his laurels and let him go out there and learn how to fly," Valette says. "It’s a wonder I’m alive the way it was 30 years ago. When I started, you’d go to two or three funerals a year."
Size Does Matter
CAL FIRE’s newest and biggest weapon is Tanker 910, a DC-10 airliner retrofitted with tanks that can hold 45,420 litres of retardant – ten times the capacity of an S-2T – enough to lay down a line 1.2 kilometers long by 15 meters wide.
"When a fire gets past 4 hectares, you want to hit it hard and you want to hit it fast, and the 10’s been able to do that," says CAL FIRE aviation chief Mike Padilla. "We’ve attributed a lot of saves to this aircraft. It’s one of the best tools I’ve seen in a long time."
Operations have gone relatively smoothly for the giant firefighting machine, although on one of the 200-plus missions it has flown since coming into service in 2006, it hit some bad air in a mountainous region and sank far enough to clip a number of treetops. No serious damage was sustained, and extra safety measures were added to ensure against future mishaps.
Band of Brothers
The tanker pilots form a tight community. Valette, the 33-year veteran, is known as "The Master"; Bill Buckley, a US Army Ranger who served in Vietnam and was formerly a lead-plane pilot with the US Forest Service, is "The Deacon," always ready with a dollop of wisdom for the others. "In God we trust," he says. "Everything else we check."
During downtime, the pilots enjoy cigars and hand-rolled cigarettes, and the occasional practical joke. Once, after flying into a flock of sparrows, Buckley found a bird’s head stuck in an air vent. He received a letter the next week, marked US Department of Interior, stating that the bird was endangered and that he was under investigation for deliberately hitting it. After other flights over the coastline and a local vineyard, Buckley received more letters alleging he spooked an experimental seal population and tainted unharvested grapes. All got laughs back at base.
Beneath the levity lies an unbending devotion to protecting the vulnerable from the ravages of wildfires. Valette keeps a radio tuned to the emergency bands. On occasion, he has heard of fire reports and requested authorization to drop retardant before receiving official orders.
"If there’s something going on, I call dispatch. I don’t care what time it is," he says. "It’s more than a job to me."
Once, while en route to one fire, he dropped retardant between a fire and a trio of children whose escape route was blocked by a 2.4-metre fence. The next day, as a supervisor was about to reprimand him for dropping without authorization, the father of two of the children arrived to thank Valette for saving their lives.
"Sometimes you have to make a decision on your own. As long as it’s sound and it’s safe and it’s gonna be effective, go ahead and do it," Valette says. "It’s a lot easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to ask for permission."
Forest fires are one of the world’s deadliest natural forces. Stopping them takes skill, planning, advanced technology – and some of the bravest pilots around
By Daniel Weiss
Pilots who drop chemical retardant on wildfires know their job is dangerous. But veteran Bob Valette, who has flown retardant tankers over fires in California since 1976, was totally stunned by a midair collision that occurred in front of him in 2001.
"We were circling over a fire, and I was set to make a drop with the next pilot alongside me," he recalls. "Then I saw him and another aircraft converging – I hollered at him, but they struck, they hit." Both pilots were killed.
Just this past American summer, three crewmembers died in another crash in the neighboring state of Nevada, and nine firefighters perished in a helicopter crash in a California national forest.
"If you’re around a tanker pilot for any length of time, you’re going to end up going to funerals," says Bill Buckley, one of Valette’s colleagues at Sonoma Air Attack Base, located 100 kilometers north of San Francisco. "That’s the reality of it."
Fire Hazard
California’s dry climate has always made it susceptible to wildfires. As recently as last November, fires destroyed hundreds of homes in the southern part of the state, while in June of the same year, a massive lightning storm set off hundreds of fires simultaneously in a single night. Within days, more than 2,000 fires were burning.
"It looked like we had been under attack," says Craig Hunt, another Sonoma tanker pilot.
In the two weeks that followed, tanker pilots dropped retardant from morning to night, giving ground crews a fighting chance. More than 4,800 square kilometers of California (equivalent to an area just under the size of Bali) had burned less than a month into the official fire season, making it one of the worst years for wildfires on record. And that was before the November fires.
As more homes are built at the edge of wildernesses, fires that might have once been allowed to burn must now be nipped in the bud. Thankfully, out-of-control fires are the exception rather than the rule; CAL FIRE, the state’s firefighting agency, keeps 95 percent of fires to smaller than four hectares (about the size of 150 tennis courts).
One of the key factors is an aggressive initial attack carried out by tanker pilots flying in conditions that would make other pilots blanch.
"You’re flying an airplane heavy, slow and low to the ground. You’re flying in mountainous terrain, in wicked winds," says Buckley. "You’ve got to be on your toes the whole time. There’s no room for error. Absolutely none."
The Sonoma Air Attack Base is one of 13 bases sited to ensure it takes no more than 20 minutes to get to a fire anywhere in California.
On arrival at the fires, Valette and the other pilots circle 300 meters above the ground in their single-pilot, twin-engined Grumman S-2T propeller planes awaiting instructions to drop retardant. These come from an Air Tactical Group supervisor who directs operations from the back seat of an OV-10A Bronco spotter plane circling the fire zone at an altitude of 760 meters. While waiting for clearance, the tanker pilots run through a checklist to ensure they have minimized the danger.
"Take a look around before you go down to see how to get in without bumping into something," says Valette. "[Check for] what’s there to hurt you down in the drop zone, and how to get out of that hole if you have an equipment malfunction."
To provide maximum power in case of such a failure, Valette turns on the plane’s auxiliary fuel pumps and sets the propellers to maximum revolutions per minute. He uses full flaps for a steep descent, which helps him see the target better, and keeps the plane’s airspeed at a leisurely 180 kilometers per hour. A mere 40 meters above the ground, he releases a 4,540-litre load of fluorescent, red retardant onto the target. The low altitude and slow speed ensure that the retardant – a mix of water, a chemical salt, a thickening agent and a colorant – doesn’t disperse as it descends and that it lands with no forward motion. Ideally, it should fall to the ground like gentle rain.
Flying Circus
Weighing nearly 5 tones, a full load of retardant makes up at least a third of the S-2T tanker’s weight. As it drops, the pilot has to push the yoke forward to keep the plane from pitching up. At the same time, he has to contend with convection currents and turbulence created by the fires, reduced visibility due to smoke and flying embers up to 50 centimeters long. "It’s an art," says Valette, who also instructs new CAL FIRE pilots. "It’s a skill not everybody has."
Only half of the aspiring tanker pilots make it through the rigorous 18-month training programme, which starts by shadowing a veteran pilot and gradually eases into doing practice drops. It was different when Valette became a tanker pilot in 1976. "They just took a pilot on his laurels and let him go out there and learn how to fly," Valette says. "It’s a wonder I’m alive the way it was 30 years ago. When I started, you’d go to two or three funerals a year."
Size Does Matter
CAL FIRE’s newest and biggest weapon is Tanker 910, a DC-10 airliner retrofitted with tanks that can hold 45,420 litres of retardant – ten times the capacity of an S-2T – enough to lay down a line 1.2 kilometers long by 15 meters wide.
"When a fire gets past 4 hectares, you want to hit it hard and you want to hit it fast, and the 10’s been able to do that," says CAL FIRE aviation chief Mike Padilla. "We’ve attributed a lot of saves to this aircraft. It’s one of the best tools I’ve seen in a long time."
Operations have gone relatively smoothly for the giant firefighting machine, although on one of the 200-plus missions it has flown since coming into service in 2006, it hit some bad air in a mountainous region and sank far enough to clip a number of treetops. No serious damage was sustained, and extra safety measures were added to ensure against future mishaps.
Band of Brothers
The tanker pilots form a tight community. Valette, the 33-year veteran, is known as "The Master"; Bill Buckley, a US Army Ranger who served in Vietnam and was formerly a lead-plane pilot with the US Forest Service, is "The Deacon," always ready with a dollop of wisdom for the others. "In God we trust," he says. "Everything else we check."
During downtime, the pilots enjoy cigars and hand-rolled cigarettes, and the occasional practical joke. Once, after flying into a flock of sparrows, Buckley found a bird’s head stuck in an air vent. He received a letter the next week, marked US Department of Interior, stating that the bird was endangered and that he was under investigation for deliberately hitting it. After other flights over the coastline and a local vineyard, Buckley received more letters alleging he spooked an experimental seal population and tainted unharvested grapes. All got laughs back at base.
Beneath the levity lies an unbending devotion to protecting the vulnerable from the ravages of wildfires. Valette keeps a radio tuned to the emergency bands. On occasion, he has heard of fire reports and requested authorization to drop retardant before receiving official orders.
"If there’s something going on, I call dispatch. I don’t care what time it is," he says. "It’s more than a job to me."
Once, while en route to one fire, he dropped retardant between a fire and a trio of children whose escape route was blocked by a 2.4-metre fence. The next day, as a supervisor was about to reprimand him for dropping without authorization, the father of two of the children arrived to thank Valette for saving their lives.
"Sometimes you have to make a decision on your own. As long as it’s sound and it’s safe and it’s gonna be effective, go ahead and do it," Valette says. "It’s a lot easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to ask for permission."